I was an October Surprise. Born four weeks early and weighing in at three pounds six ounces, I spent my first post-natal month in an incubator. Maybe that’s why I’m okay with cozy little spaces. And being alone for long periods of time. Or why I’m independent, anxious, and overly sensitive to inhospitable environments. I’ve come to believe that the circumstances of our birth create an imprint. For some it may be subtle or without long-lasting consequences. For me, not so much.
My premature departure/arrival was not by choice. But I can’t help but wonder if it was the template for many of the choices made thereafter. Maybe it’s why I spend a lot of mind time in the land of what if? What would have happened if I had been able to stay longer inside that safest of safe space? What would have happened if my birth hadn’t been a life or death enterprise? Would my parents have worried less? Would I have been braver? Second-guessed myself less? Would I approach surprises with “bring it on,” rather “what fresh hell”?
In October 2020 we are awash in angst and increasingly numb to the news. When the bottom keeps dropping, are we even capable of surprise? But this year, instead of awaiting the obligatory pre-election trope, we are the October Surprise. We are voting early and in record numbers. We are masking up and showing up. We are fighting for our lives. This is hard. Nothing about it seems right or fair. But as we wait inside this pre-election incubator, getting stronger each day, we celebrate the beginnings—especially the difficult ones.